A Life On Fire Page 2

  “Holy shit,” he said, dropping both the lighter and cigarette. He scooped up the Camel first, frowning at the small circular hole burnt into the seat. “Dammit,” he said. The lighter had fallen between the seats, irretrievable for the moment. He looked both ways, looked again, then pulled out after looking a final time.

  Gerald walked out of Subway, carrying his lunch in a clear plastic bag. He loved Subway, but had always found it odd that the napkins smelled like crayons. He took a sip of the iced tea he’d purchased along with the sandwich and sat back down in his car. As he ate, he thought about the mess he’d made of the day (and previous night) and what he could do to fix it. He picked his cell phone up again.

  “Matilda? Hey, it’s me. I have a few things to take care of, but I’ll be in for a few hours later today,” he said, pausing to take a bite. “What? Holman was back? Jesus Christ . . . what did he bring this time? A fucking alarm clock? You’re serious? Tell him to come back next week. Okay. Yeah. I’ll see you in a few hours.” He hung up the phone, sat silent for a moment, then finished his lunch.

  How many times could someone be expected to deal with idiots like Mr. Holman, “inventing” common household items? Maybe Gerald would take a few weeks off, go camping or something.

  Or look for a new fucking job, he thought.

  Gerald went home, showered, then headed back toward the office. On the way, he heard tires screech and swore that he saw the green pickup truck again. This time, he noticed a Confederate flag in the back window.

  “Well, that’s shocking,” he said, rolling his eyes. He had always had a difficult time not immediately thinking someone was scum when he saw them flying a Confederate flag. Gerald had never given it much thought, but the problem likely came from high school.

  There had been something of a rivalry between Gerald’s friends and a group of guys who considered themselves Southern. They all talked with exaggerated accents, wore boots and novelty-sized belt buckles, and drove enormous monster trucks, despite most of them not even living on farms, let alone coming from the South. The last time Gerald had checked, Ohio was awfully north of the Mason-Dixon.

  The rest of the trip was uneventful and Gerald finally made it to work at three o’clock. He ignored the odd looks as he walked through the lobby to his office, said hi to Matilda, and grabbed the stack of incoming mail from her desk. He shut his door and sat down, sighing.

  He laughed at the sigh, like he’d been busy and productive enough today to warrant such a reaction. He stared at the papers on his desk, unable to focus. He’d thought coming into the office would get his head back in order, but he was too frazzled to work. He buzzed Matilda on the intercom.

  “I’m not getting anything done. I’m gonna work from home the rest of the day.”

  “Five minute work day. Must be a new record.”

  Gerald smirked, then got up to leave. He tossed the mail on his desk and walked out. Matilda smiled at him as he left, giving him a funny look. “You okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Little hungover. Maybe a little depressed.” This was hardly a new thing. Gerald was waiting for her to leave an Alcoholics Anonymous card on his desk with the frequency of his hangover complaints. Instead, she usually gave him a disapproving look. “Think I’m gonna relax a bit this evening”—there was the look—“alcohol free,” he added. Her look’s severity lessened slightly.

  “Should I tell anyone who calls that you’ll be in tomorrow?”

  Gerald raised an eyebrow and tried to give her his own look. Failing, he said, “Yes, Mother. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  Chapter 6

  Gerald sat on his couch, flipping through the channels. Not finding anything good on TV, he walked over to his bookshelf and scanned the contents. Somehow, he’d managed to go through his entire to-read stack. He looked around the room, desperate for something to do. He walked over to the PlayStation, picked up the controller and set it back down. He got bored with video games way too quickly to really justify owning a system and he couldn’t really remember why he’d bought it in the first place. He looked at the urn, looked away, and tried not to think about it. That would be impossible with it out in plain view. He grabbed the urn, took it into the kitchen, and put it in the only cabinet with enough space.

  He walked outside, remembering the mess of beer cans and bottles on the front lawn. He went to the garage for a trash bag, then got to work cleaning up. He nearly filled the bag and set it down on the lawn. He sat down next to it and lit a cigarette. Initially, he’d meant to quit again, but didn’t feel like fighting that battle today. Halfway through the cigarette, he looked at the bag of cans and got an idea.

  Take a breath, hold it, squeeze slowly . . .

  BAM!

  The Budweiser can flew off the post, a hole punched in its center. Gerald lowered his pistol, smiled, and aimed at the next can. He fired again, then again, not stopping until all fifteen cans were knocked down. The slide on his pistol locked open, smoke rising from the empty chamber. He walked over, picked up the cans and put them back on the posts, replacing the ones that wouldn’t stand back up with new ones. He reloaded the nine-millimeter and went through the process again.

  After going through a box of bullets, he went in the house to get another box. He hadn’t expected to have quite so much fun shooting cans. On his way back outside, he stopped in the kitchen to get something to eat. Opening the refrigerator, he saw all the beer left from the previous night. There was an entire unopened case, plus eight more singles. He thought back to telling Matilda he wasn’t going to drink and got a little angry. Fuck that, he thought, it’s not like she’s my wife. His expression shifted from slight anger to dark and serious and he took out the case.

  Gerald pulled the trigger on the pistol five times in rapid succession, missing the cans entirely. His last shot glanced off something hard, ricocheting and whistling into the distance.

  Not my wife, he thought again.

  He emptied the rest of the bullets randomly in the direction of the cans. He tried to reload the pistol, but dropped it, the magazine, and the box of bullets, which landed on and around all the fresh empty beer cans.

  “Oops,” he said, slurring and laughing. He bent down to the ground and found seven bullets. He drunkenly loaded them into the magazine and replaced it in the pistol. He stuck the gun in the back of his pants and looked for another beer. As he walked over to where the case was spilled on the lawn, he heard someone scream. His head whipped around and he thought he saw a flash in the field. As he was telling himself it was nothing, the nothing screamed again. Gerald’s face screwed up, and he mumbled, “Sounded like—”

  Tracy stares down at the leg she’s been shaving for the last ten minutes. She looks at the other identical, hairless leg. Totally fucking pointless.

  A memory:

  The two of them huddled together under a sopping wet blanket. Prior to the storm rolling on, they’d been having a picnic. She’d planned it as a surprise for Gerald, packing all his favorite foods. She’d even watched the weather for a week, choosing the perfect day. And what was her reward?

  A rain storm.

  At the first drops, she’d tried to ignore them, but moments later they were both soaked. Gerald had laughed, pulling the blanket over the two of them. They lay on the grass together, Gerald touched that she’d gone to such trouble for him. She apologized repeatedly for the rain, agonized over their perfect day being ruined. He said he didn’t care, hugged her to him, and kissed her, like always. It made no difference. Tracy hurt inside, wishing for something else, like always.

  Though the water in the tub has grown cold, she no longer feels it. She thinks about all the time she’s spent in her life removing hair, obsessing over her body, painting shit on her face . . . all of it to no end. Had she spent her life smoking crack and eating dirt, she knows she’d still have wound up lying in the tub right here, right now. Maybe not this tub. Maybe not with a guy like Gerald, but some fucking tub, with some fucking guy. She knows this
should make her feel bad, slighting Gerald’s role in her life, but it doesn’t. Can’t. She isn’t good enough for him. She’s known this for a long time. She thinks about all the things they’ve done together, all the time they’ve spent together. Ironically, she is quite capable of feeling guilty for the false sense of security she’s helped Gerald create. False sense of family.

  She wants nothing more than to look at him and feel happy, to really be happy. She knows he feels this way when he looks at her. Jealousy. She can feel that, too.

  Guilt.

  Jealousy.

  Is that all she has left? No. There is plenty of anger. And resentment. She even resents Gerald for loving her so much, making this so difficult. Beyond everything else, she’s afraid. Afraid he will follow her, no matter where she goes.

  Chapter 7

  Gerald climbed over the fence, fumbling the dismount and falling on his ass. He got up and continued in what he thought was the direction of the scream. It sounded like it had come from pretty far away and the flash looked like it had been in the trees. Immediately behind his house was a huge field (Gerald had no idea the size, as he found it very difficult to think in acreage) and, behind that, the trees. To the immediate west of the woods was a gorge. Despite living here for several years, he had never ventured all the way back across the field (nor the gorge, as it was on his neighbor’s property). He’d helped several of the neighbor kids look for a model rocket in the field once, but the forest area was still uncharted waters. The sun was nearly set and Gerald felt uneasy about going into the forest at night. He remembered the gun in his waistband, but felt silly about pulling it out. Still, it was somewhat comforting.

  Halfway to the forest, the sun dropped out of the sky. Gerald looked around, unsettled by the sudden darkness. He looked back at his home, which appeared to be nearly a mile from where he stood. The forest had never seemed anywhere near this far. He thought about forgetting the whole thing, returning to his house, but he heard the scream again. This time, much closer.

  The close proximity of the scream sobered him up considerably. His hand went to the nine-millimeter, this time without any shame, and he continued to the forest, now impossibly closer than it had been only seconds before. He turned toward his house again, now unable to even see the porch light he’d left on. He turned back toward the forest to find himself surrounded by foliage.

  “What the . . .” he said, trailing off. He was no longer drunk, the beer’s effects completely sweated and scared out of him. There was a rustling sound which grew into a shrieking sound, eventually causing him to collapse to the ground. The pistol fell from his hand and he clutched his head. The rustle-shriek cut out abruptly, leaving an audible silence. Gerald’s ears rang as he released his head, standing back up. The noise had disoriented him completely. He had no idea in which direction he’d been going, or which way he’d come from. There was another flash, and Gerald had no choice but to walk toward it.

  Gerald felt the heat long before he saw it. The fire was the diameter of a small house, rising nearly to the sky. He didn’t know how it was possible to not have seen the smoke from his yard, but this was soon forgotten. The men surrounding the fire captured his attention. They stood impossibly close to the blaze, not exactly dancing, but stomping about in what appeared to be some sort of tribal ritual. Gerald stared at the chaotic movements, unable to look away.

  Another motion to the right of the fire caught his eye. He moved closer to get a better look, careful not to be seen by the men. As he neared the inferno, he noticed the men were naked, but perhaps smeared with mud and leaves, or moss, or twigs? The horizontal movement beside the fire proved to be a woman, also naked, tied to a spit.

  What is this, a fucking cannibal movie? Gerald thought. Confused, he ventured closer. He knew he should help the woman, but the situation seemed too unreal for there to be any true sense of danger. Still, he couldn’t leave her to be presumably burned alive.

  Gerald crept closer, out of view of the men (cannibals?). He got within maybe ten yards of the woman when the men shifted their attention to her. As they neared the woman and Gerald, it became evident they were not covered in leaves, moss, twigs, or mud. Beyond that, they were not exactly men, either. Their heads were like sawed-off alligator snouts, their bodies covered with stubby black tentacles.

  “My god,” Gerald breathed in barely a whisper. The creature closest to the woman held a crude blade and cut the line binding her feet. She struggled as two of the others grabbed her legs, holding them apart. The first creature, who Gerald thought of as the leader, stood between her splayed legs. The tentacles in its crotch area elongated and entwined to form an oversized writhing cock. It pulsed, dripping dark goo from its surface as the creature neared the woman. Seconds before the creature thrust itself into her, she looked directly at Gerald, making eye contact.

  “Tracy,” he said, though he knew this couldn’t be true. His head spun as he watched the beast violate her. Random snippets of their years together flooded his mind and he blacked out momentarily. He watched in horror, unable to move. Though none of the creatures seemed to have noticed him, she looked at Gerald again, locking her gaze directly with his. Her screams slowly shifted from terror to pleasure, a wicked smile forming on her face. Gerald watched in disbelief as her face, Tracy’s face, twisted into orgasmic pleasure far greater than he’d ever seen on her before. He almost blacked out again as the creature withdrew from her, the black goo pouring from her gaping hole.

  The creatures now stood back, all of them looking at Gerald, but he was still unable to move. He breathed her name again. The leader, still holding his blade, cut her hands loose. She stood up, the goo running down her legs. Gerald could only stare as she stood before the fire, running her hands up and down her body. He knew this couldn’t really be Tracy, but he was unable to look away. The world fell away as she squeezed her breasts with one hand and ran the other between her legs. Two fingers disappeared into her, coming back out then plunging back in. After several moments, her fingers squished together and her hand transformed into a penis. She withdrew her cock-hand from herself, holding it up for Gerald to see. He continued to stare in disbelief as she licked the black goo from its head and began fellating it. She swallowed it down, deepthroating it to mid-forearm.

  When she withdrew the cock-hand from her mouth and it ejaculated more of the black goo all over her face, Gerald’s vision went fuzzy and he collapsed to the ground.

  Chapter 8

  Gerald woke up, the sun beating into his eyes. He raised his head and looked around, no idea where he was. Before he stood up, he rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. It didn’t seem right that the sky should be so blue and serene when he felt so fucked up. He didn’t even know why he felt so fucked up. All he could remember was fire, the woods, and Tracy. What he did know was that his head hurt, his mouth tasted like shit, and he was probably late for work. Again.

  As he climbed over the fence into his yard, Gerald saw the mess of shot up beer cans. He wasn’t surprised he’d spent the evening shooting stuff, considering the way his ears were ringing. He thought again about being late for work, and knew he needed to straighten up. He had a lot of freedom with his bosses, but there was only so much shit they’d take and he’d been dishing it out pretty heavily as of late.

  He went inside, showered, and drove to work. He parked his car, walked up to the building and saw a sign on the door.

  “Closed for maintenance?” he said, confused. He thought they did that stuff at night. It seemed strange no one called him to let him know it would be closed, but then again, he did skip out yesterday and show up late today. Regardless, a day off work was a day off work, and he felt no need to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.

  As he headed back to his car, he heard someone calling his name. “Mr. McManner! Mr. McManner!” Gerald looked in the direction of the voice, and his mood soured considerably.

  “Oh. Mr . . . uh . . .”

  “Holman. You won�
��t believe what I brought today,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Mr. Holman. Right,” Gerald said, reluctantly shaking the man’s hand. “I hate to tell you this,” he lied, “but the office is closed today” —he hooked his thumb toward the sign— “for maintenance.”

  “No matter, I can show you right here,” Mr. Holman said, reaching into his knapsack. “Behold, the double-knife!” Gerald stared, expressionless, as Mr. Holman produced what appeared to be a crude pair of scissors and handed them to him. Whenever Mr. Holman showed him stupid things at work, it was difficult enough to be nice, but outside the office, it was impossible.

  “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!” Gerald said, thrusting the scissors back into Mr. Holman’s hand. “How fucking old are you?”

  Mr. Holman was taken aback, and looked as if he may cry. “I-I’m thirty-seven.”

  “Thirty-seven. You’re thirty-seven fucking years old, and you’ve never seen scissors before?”

  At that, Mr. Holman did begin to cry. “One knife is good for cutting things. I thought two would be better,” he sniffled.

  “Un-fucking-believable. You thought two would be better. What the fuck is the matter with you?” Gerald turned abruptly and walked away. He didn’t think Mr. Holman would have the courage to speak with his superiors, but either way, he didn’t give a shit. He’d had more than enough of this asshole.

  “Why are you being so mean to me?” Mr. Holman said, following Gerald.

  “Because you’re a fucking idiot,” Gerald yelled over his shoulder, picking up his pace.

  “Just let me show you how the double-knife works!” Mr. Holman began to run toward Gerald, brandishing his bastardized-scissors. He was now sobbing, strings of mucus pouring from his nose. The closer he got to Gerald, the more it sounded like he wasn’t sobbing exactly, but laughing a little, too.